Chapter 336: Monster… Monster!

“That woman tonight… she’s mine.”

The girl with the startlingly sweet face, Butterfly, declared this to the other six.

Her eyes glittered under the moonlight—the gleam of a predator’s hunger.

Crocodile did not doubt Butterfly could do it.

She was very good at this.

First, paralyze the prey with toxic scales, rendering them conscious but helpless. Then, inject the venom, letting the victim feel with perfect clarity as their body dissolved from the inside out, watching themselves being siphoned away, devoured, while still alive.

The prey would perceive everything, fully awake, yet utterly incapable of resistance.

This was Butterfly’s way of feeding. It was also one of the methods by which they maintained their “order.”

Inside the ballroom, the elite hunted through the currencies of human society—money, power.

And they? They conducted a hunt far more primal, far more brutal.

Each took what they needed. They never interfered with one another. That was how they had always done things.

And yet…

Crocodile’s thoughts snapped back to the present.

His pupils constricted violently.

Those vertical slits shuddered in shock. The pupils that had been disguised as human eyes could no longer hold their shape. They began to elongate slightly, betraying their inhuman nature.

He understood now.

They had provoked a monster.

A monster far more adept at playing with prey than they were.

This was no hunt.

This was a trap.

From the moment Butterfly had approached Pandora, from the moment she believed she was the predator…

She had already stepped into the snare.

That girl…

No—that monster—was no lamb waiting to be slaughtered.

She was a butcher in sheep’s clothing!

Fear. That long-forgotten emotion. It crept into Crocodile’s heart for the first time in an age.

When had he last felt fear?

When he had not yet acquired a human skin? When he had first mutated into an Anomaly, still ignorant and uncomprehending?

He could not remember.

It was too long ago.

So long that he had forgotten what it felt like to be prey.

He wanted to retreat. Wanted to leave this room, heavy with the scent of death.

But his feet seemed nailed to the floor.

Footsteps sounded from behind him.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Crisp. Elegant. Unhurried.

Each step landed as though upon his heart, the rhythm precise and leisurely—a casual stroll.

Crocodile turned, stiffly. Within the fog that had appeared and spread at some unknown point, he saw a silhouette…

………………

Elsewhere, in the garden beyond the ballroom, Serpent prowled.

The blood-red moon hung in the night sky, pouring its cold, hard light over the manicured hedges, casting stark, angular shadows upon the ground.

The night breeze teased the hem of her trailing gown. The fabric billowed softly, like the creature her name evoked, gliding silently through the undergrowth.

The champagne flute in her hand tilted gently. The pale golden liquid swirled along the inner wall of the glass, reflecting her face—delicate, yet somewhat hard and cold.

Serpent was not in the ballroom. She had never liked the noise.

The scents of those humans—perfume, sweat, desire, greed—all mingled together. It nauseated her.

Butterfly had just declared that she would devour Pandora.

“But such a tender, succulent piece of meat—why should it be handed to her?”

Who did she think she was? That the finest prizes should always fall to her?

Dream on!

Serpent took a sip of champagne and thought coldly.

“And besides… eating her… it’s far too barbaric.”

Serpent, who fancied herself a civilized “person,” had always loathed her companions’ habit of consuming human flesh raw.

Utterly uncivilized. The act of beasts.

She had long since transcended such base pleasures.

Serpent had her own plans.

The age-reversing elixir held no real significance for aberrant life forms like them.

She would never grow old. She had no need of human medicine to preserve her youth.

However, she had to admit: for humans, the allure of such technology was immense.

Immense enough to strip the most astute minds of their sanity.

And whoever could develop such technology was undoubtedly a genius among human geniuses.

In that case, why not claim that genius for herself?

With such technology in hand, the number of people she could control would only multiply.

The rich who feared aging, the powerful who craved youth—they would all flock to her like moths to a flame.

By then, she could transform an entire human city, with its millions of inhabitants, into her personal pasture.

No more scattered hunting. Systematic harvesting instead.

Fixed quotas on a fixed schedule. Plenty and prosperity.

No more skulking in dark corners to feed, like her savage companions.

This was civilization.

This was how Serpent ought to live.

As for Pandora Douglas herself…

Once her value had been thoroughly extracted, what harm was there in savoring her delectable flesh afterward?

The corner of Serpent’s mouth curled upward into a cold, calculating smile.

Within the champagne flute, her own reflection returned the same smile.

But the thought that Butterfly had already moved—that Pandora had already been led to a room—sent a wave of irritation through Serpent.

The irritation was like a tiny splinter lodged in her throat. Impossible to swallow, impossible to cough up.

Her champagne glass was empty. Her fingertips traced the rim absently. Her gaze flicked again and again toward the side door that led from the ballroom to the private chambers.

The longer she waited, the deeper her agitation grew.

To her surprise, however, it was not long before one of her subordinates brought her news:

Pandora had left Butterfly’s room!

Serpent’s heart gave a small leap.

She was delighted. Butterfly’s attempt had clearly failed.

She did not doubt the report’s veracity.

After all, Butterfly’s method of predation did not always succeed.

The process was too drawn out: first, the toxic scales to induce paralysis, then the slow injection of venom, letting the prey feel themselves digested inch by inch while fully conscious…

The process was exquisite, certainly—but its success rate depended on too many variables.

The target might not share such tastes. Might not be willing to follow Butterfly away. Might not lower their guard in the atmosphere Butterfly so carefully constructed.

Who said Pandora would necessarily share such tastes?

Serpent had always held Butterfly’s approach in disdain.

Too convoluted. Too reliant on luck.

Yet even Serpent had to concede: Butterfly’s ability to craft human skins was indispensable to The Seven.

Those skins were far superior to any of their own original abilities.

Once you had worn one, you could never go back.

Butterfly’s skins were flawlessly textured, possessed realistic body warmth, and replicated even the minutest pores and contours.

Compared to the crude disguises each of them could fashion on their own, it was the difference between heaven and earth.

This time, however, the opportunity was hers.

If Butterfly had failed, there was no reason to stop Serpent from making her move.

The Seven had an unspoken understanding among themselves: whoever claimed the prize first, kept it.

Only…

Serpent’s brow furrowed slightly. Pandora did not appear easy to approach.

That young doctoral researcher—Serpent had observed her performance in the ballroom earlier.

Facing the wealthy elite’s pursuit, she had navigated with effortless skill. Impeccable, impenetrable. Polite, yet distant. She had let no one truly draw near.

How could one gain contact with a person like that?

Serpent swirled her glass. Ice cubes chimed softly against the crystal.

As the wisest of The Seven, she soon allowed a smile to touch her eyes.

She had an idea.